


Flickers In The Flame

by Val_Creative



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Adorable Frodo Baggins, Canon - Movie, Canon Divergence - The Lord of the Rings, Elf Culture & Customs, First Kiss, Hobbits, Humor, Injury Recovery, Light Angst, M/M, POV Frodo Baggins, Rivendell | Imladris, Romantic Friendship, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:33:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21866791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: While still recovering from his injury by the Morgul-blade, Frodo has a quiet and romantic moment alone with Sam.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 13
Kudos: 110
Collections: Lord of the Rings Secret Santa 2019





	Flickers In The Flame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lilith_lessfair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilith_lessfair/gifts).



> IS THIS MY FIRST FIC OF THIS OTP? HELL YEAH. IT TOOK TOO DAMN LONG TO WRITE IT BUT HELL YEEAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH.

*

When he wakes, Frodo hears the bubbling of running water. Soft, harmonious noises of the falls. Everything seems distant.

He always wanted to visit Rivendell, ever since Frodo heard Bilbo's stories of his adventures and of the elves. To see its legends made truth. The old, marbled structures of Rivendell's halls and corridors. Oaks and elms and redwoods among the borders of mountainous slopes, growing as tall as the skies. None of their leaves faded of their vibrant, splendid colours. He's sure there are hares and foxes and stoats living where the brooks are fresh, enchanted with healing properties.

They say Rivendell sits on the edge on a high, narrow gorge leading from Bruinen, hidden deep in the moorlands and foothills. While it can withstand any battle, such a place has only known and wished for the ideals of enlightenment and serenity.

Frodo wanders out of the passages lead to the dais of feasting tables, and that's when it feels like he's _dreaming_. Still sleeping.

Dusk melds the valley's shadows. Creamy, pale amber mist hovers against treetops. The scent of rainstorm, as well as meadowflowers and grass, surrounds him as the day's light vanishes, gifting the warmth to linger in the air.

His friends talk boastfully somewhere off away, cheering and singing. Pippin has already managed to offend several of the elves through jest. Frodo keeps to himself by the carved pillars, resting and pressing one of his hands against his shoulder-joint. He doesn't want to remember how the Morgul-blade sank into his flesh, tearing Frodo open, surging a icy, liquid fire into his blood.

It feels like himself sinks, down into a endless chasm of _darkness_ , as the songs of blackbirds and sparrows fade. Frodo's other hand stretches for the nearest fire-pit, attempting to _worship_ the flamelight when his insides shiver cold. To grab and hold.

"Mr. Frodo…"

Sam's worried voice drifts over him, like the flamelight but quicker and more real. Frodo breaks out of his daze, blinking slowly.

"Don't do that… you'll hurt yourself…"

He examines Frodo's hand almost burned, as if memorising the little bumps and wrinkles. Counting each dark, fine hair on his knuckles. Sam clutches onto him. Tension unwheels out of Frodo — he's rising _out_ of the lethargic, dark despair, not sinking.

"Why aren't you celebrating, Sam?" Frodo murmurs, nodding to the others. "We've done it. We've gotten the Ring here."

There's a look of nervous, lighthearted contempt on Sam's features. He massages Frodo's palm and wrist and the length of his fingers, traveling partly up to his arm. Frodo shuts his light blue eyes, humming out. "I'll feel better after we've gone home," Sam tells him.

It makes sense, Frodo supposes. He has never been this far from the Shire in his entire life, and never wanted to.

Sam gets up from the marble-white bench beside him, shifting Frodo's blanket up and wrapping it to him. He acts too motherly at times. _Protective_. Whines and fusses, but Frodo wouldn't have him any other way. This is his best friend. Samwise Gamee — expert storyteller, defeater of applecakes, lover of poems and epics and gardening. A fellow hobbit whom stares too long and too longingly when he thinks Frodo isn't paying him any mind. It's _admirable_ that Sam humbles himself, even his own affections.

Frodo never thought seriously about a blissfully, comfortably married life or a wife. Or a husband. Sam would make a fine one.

"Are you hungry, Mr. Frodo?"

He shakes his head at Sam's question. The plates of leafy greens and silvery herbs during the feast, accompanied in trilling music of harps and other string instruments, helped Frodo's recovery but not much else. He loathed the pale tasteless mead.

"I haven't the stomach," Frodo says, brooding.

"Nor I. Although…" Sam muses, pausing to drop Frodo's hand in his lap suddenly and giving a loud, fanciful sigh. "What I wouldn't give for… a whole pile of soft-boiled eggs with roasted meats and dry red wine about now…"

Frodo's stomach gurgles a little. "Blood sausages…"

"Ah yes, Mr. Frodo. You're onto something," Sam replies, gazing up as if daydreaming happily. "Quails dripping in butter… broth with cooked whitefish, onion, and tomato… mutton chops in a rich honey sauce…"

"Smoked trout…"

 _"Oatmeal!"_ Sam laughs, and the other hobbit sees his round, handsome face break into a grin. "The soggiest, greyest kind!"

Frodo's eyes crinkle, the rows of his teeth exposing as he laughs along with him. Their fingers separate apart, lonely, as Sam gets up once more, with him fussing over the blanket and adjusting it up over Frodo's shoulders this time when it slips down. Perhaps he misses it, but there's a great intensity building in Frodo's expression as he studies every angle of Sam's face.

"Sam…" Frodo mumbles, grinning wider. having his attention finally. He moves in, not wasting a second, touching his lips to another pair. Gentle, closemouthed. Their noses smush. Frodo can taste a hint of perspiration and leafy green on Sam's mouth.

He pulls away, to sit back down, and Frodo halts. Sam returns into his breathing space, kissing him this time, cupping Frodo's cheek. _Harder_.

A tingle of dizziness and pleasure courses through Frodo. His lips open, feeling Sam's own mouth easing against him as the next kiss forms. He's never known Sam to be this aggressive unless it was something he truly felt. Frodo lets out a low, needy sound as Sam's thumb drags hotly to his jaw. That's when Sam leans out, flushed red and avoiding eye-contact.

Despite his shy, overwhelming embarrassment, Frodo laughs again. "Thank you…" he says, clasping over Sam's knee.

"Y-You're welcome, Mr. Frodo."

*


End file.
